Tintin: The Imperial Graveyard
by TLKFan
Summary: The British were there when the Sherlock Holmes novels were written, and the British are there now when the Sherlock Holmes TV show is being filmed. This is the story of Tintin's run-in with Daesh, and the resulting adventures in the land where empires go to die...
1. Chapter 1

Tintin

The Imperial Graveyard

—

A sudden gust of wind sent a cloud of dust rampaging down the narrow crowded walkpath. Dust, flecks of paper, and a hundred clinking spent brass casings from the most recent battle.

That was… had it been a week ago already, when allied forces had retaken the city? Or was it a month? Did it matter? Battles and wars melded seamlessly into one another these days, as constant and shapeless as the dust itself.

They all knew it. They all knew that theirs was a time of war. That was why every single one of them, every woman in a veiled cloak, every man with oiled hair and a Western suit, every child old enough to walk on his own two feet, was armed. Some carried pistols openly, some wore rifles across their backs, some opted for heavier arms still and some told themselves if a situation became that desperate, they'd save a bullet for themselves. Better to be captured than killed by any one of the factions operating there.

Half of the folk couldn't tell them apart. That one with the tricolor banner, they claimed to favor women's rights but had stoned an adulteress to death the today before, leaving her lover unharmed. That one whose banner was emblazoned with a stylized hammer and sickle, they claimed to be for the common man but were backed by the oil nations to the southeast. And that one with the red and black flag, whose members saluted each other with a straight arm, they didn't care for anyone who wasn't a Sunni Arab.

A fist in the face of history. A fist in the face of their city. Jews had lived there, and Romans, and Mesopotamians, Assyrians, Turkomens, all different people from all different walks of life, since time immemorial. They had come and gone with the passing of the eons, leaving behind culinary, architectural, genetic legacies. One could see it in the faces of the natives. That boy, maybe he had an ancestor from the far East. That little girl had red hair, perhaps she was descended from the Varangians. That little dog was pure snow white… maybe he was a newcomer to the city.

He made his way down the packed corridor, black nose twitch, seeking something out, searching someone out. A big-bellied man bellowed about his shawarma and falafel, the best in the city since "someone" had gunned down his rival; the odor of cooking spiced meat distracted him briefly. He then remembered his mission and turned down an alley seemingly reserved for spice vendors.

This one specialized in cinnamon for coffee. That one had connections with the west and could get you ingredients most had never heard of before. The owner of this one had a toothy grin, a real gold Rolex watch, and a friendly hand for the little white dog. It was just a dog. Not a man in camouflage with an M16 and one of those silly blue helmets they thought kept them safe.

The dog made himself at home at the proprietor's feet. Kept his head up and his ears perked, not like the lazy, weary mutts that were native to the city. Not that there were many of them left. In months past, when bombs fell without pause for weeks on end, there were no pets. Just food.

Perhaps he'd keep this pooch around. Who knew when the bombs might begin to fall again, after all. And he had no delusions that his newfound friends would keep him safe. They weren't friends. Just business partners, if that. He gave them space and cover and didn't ask too many questions and they gave him money and a chance to sample some of their wares before they hit the market. And he kept his day job, selling spices.

"Salaam, my friend." A man entered the shop, a slight man dressed in a baggy tunic and aviator sunglasses. A funny tuft of red hair pooked out from under his kiffiyeh.

"Salaam," the owner replied. "What are you look for today?"

"Nothing in particular," came the response. "Just… cardamom." He paused. "Sesame." Another pause." Carraway."

A knowing smile crept onto the owner's face. He beckoned the man to the back of the shop and knocked on a hollow-sounding section of wall thrice. A moment later he returned to the storefront itself, alone. The little white doggy had gone, too.

—

The dim orange lights washed out any semblance of color in the narrow dark hallway. Most shape, too. He just barely noticed the iconic banana magazine of a Kalashnikov rifle before a man dressed in black stepped out in front of him.

A stylized Shahadah on a white background was emblazoned on his mask, over his forehead. His alliance was clear.

A few barked words in Arabic. Get your head back in the game.

"Salaam, salaam, habibi." Peace, peace, my friend. "I'm a customer," he said, raising his hands to show that he was unarmed. "Cardamom, sesame, carraway."

The man's face twitched horribly under his mask.

My God—he had spoken in English. His mind raced, thought of excuses, but the masked man just grinned. Laughed.

"Another Westerner, way out here. Welcome to the Caliph, brother." After patting him down for weapons, he extended a hand, and, still bewildered, the redhead took it and shook.

"My parents moved to Europe before I was born. It's funny… they went through all that trouble, only for me to leave when I came of age. It's worth it, of course," he said. He began to lead the redhead further down the corridor, toward a dull dim orange light.

"I'd give my life for the memory of the Prophet. I'd take a dozen lives to create a nation where, in the future, our people can live in peace. No matter if our ancestors are from Afghanistan, or Syria, Iraq, or…" he glanced at the redhead's hair, at his peculiarly sharp features, "Chechnya?"

"Chechenistan," the redhead corrected. "That's its proper name."

A respectful smile and nod. The masked man then stood aside and bade the redhead to enter a warm room, adorned with fine plush velvet, gold threaded tapestries, and a dozen young, skinny, sniveling chained bodies that cringed whenever he looked toward them.

"The best slaves in the Caliph," the masked man reported proudly. "As you can see, we've only a few of the blond infidels left. But, Inshallah, we'll have some more in stock after the offensive next week."

"So, it's still planned for next week?" the redhead said. He knelt next to the wares and adjusted his kiffeyeh. Reached out to one of them with a hand. The smallest among them, a child no older than five, began to cry.

Another man stepped out of the shadows and silenced her with a kick. Snarled accented Arabic and gestured at his Kalashnikov. Know your place. This is your future master. Treat him well or he'll cut off your hand and eat it for breakfast.

The redhead said nothing and continued to survey the slaves. He circled them once, then twice, slowly, as if trying to memorize everything about them. Everything about the room itself. The several crates piled up on either side of the slaves, the plush curtains and pillows, the metal pulldown door that separated them from the outside world. He held one arm almost straight, as if it was in pain. Was he injured?

The masked man who had escorted him back was about to ask when his partner shouted. Pulled back the redhead's sleeve and exposed a metal and plastic block with a blinking LED. He raised his Kalashnikov—

And shrieked when a ball of white darted from the shadows and clamped its jaws shut on his forearm. Shake it off—kick it—no—drop and curl and try to shove it back. Not working. The dog was determined and trained and clamped on his arm tighter than a vice.

The redhead and the other masked man were on the floor, a flurry of fists and feet. The man in the mask drew a knife and slashed wildly, throwing the redhead off with a shriek of pain.

There he lay on the floor among the screaming slaves. A wounded pup among whimpering dogs. He advanced on him with his blade raised—

When a fine cloth strap fell off his shoulder. His sling. His rifle.

He never heard the gunshots. Never saw them either. Just felt the impacts and the warm wet red in his chest, his hands. He dropped to his knees with a dismal soft sigh and died with his eyes open.

The redhead's hands were tight on his weapon. A yelp—he turned and watched the little white dog go flying across the room. The other masked man stood—saw the Kalashnikov—dived behind a series of crates. Just in time to avoid a volley of gunfire.

The slaves were screaming, wrestling at their shackles. A few hasty words of Arabic—hold still, I'm your friend—and a boy held up the catch that restrained them all. The redhead broke through it with a gunshot.

To the door. To the door. There's a code on the opener. Shoot it and get the slaves to lift it and fire another volley at the man in the back of the shop, shrieking and swearing. Keep him at bay. Keep him afraid.

The door lifted a crack. Slipped and fell, crushing a minuscule finger. They lifted again and the redhead slipped underneath, holding it in place with his own shoulder.

Now get out. All of you, and make sure you bring the little white dog.

The weight of the door crushed him down but he held strong. Gave him time to hold his rifle to his hip and fire a few more suppressing shots at the masked man as the final few slaves raced into the sunlight, into freedom. One of them had the little white dog tucked under an arm. Now it was his time to go.

A masked face appeared in the darkness. He drew a bead on it, finger tight on the trigger—no. The other man had gone down with red holes in his chest because he had advanced with a blade. Now he was blue-lipped on the ground, eyes still open. Couldn't—wouldn't do that again.

"I swear to God," the masked man snarled, "I swear on the name of the Prophet that I will hunt you down. Where you go, I will catch you. If you go up I will pull you down by your feet; if you hide below, I will pull you up by that stupid tuft of hair. Do you understand?!"

Malicious crazy laughter followed. He must have realized that he was exposed, because he vanished back into the shadows. A second later, the redhead fired off a shot that cracked through the air where he had been. He then rolled out of the doorway and into the sandswept streets, rifle still in his arms.

Panting. Hyperventilating. Sweating. The man's laughter still rang in his ears, at least until the little white dog came with a friendly bark to ensure that his master was okay.

"I'm alright. I'm not hurt," the redhead said to the dog. Turned back to the door and noticed that, at some point, his kiffiyeh had fallen away. This exposed waist-length hair and fine chiseled features.

"You'll never catch me," she said. "You don't even know who I am!"

Rifle still in her hand, she and the little white dog and the slaves they'd freed ran together, leaving the masked man to laugh alone in his little dark corner of the world until he went mad.


	2. Chapter 2

Tintin

The Imperial Graveyard

He inhaled a deep breath. Exhaled black reeking smoke through his nose. Usually he didn't inhale, but today he had to. He had to.

Forget that the humidor had long broken. Forget that they had never been packaged right to begin with. Forget that he hadn't seen the woman who had sent them in a straight year. No wonder the package had been shipped from APO to APO for months, until some motivated Lieutenant had tracked him down and paid for back-owed shipping out of his pocket. Forget all that.

With a black felt-tipped pen, he made another mark on the coffee-stained map before him. If the latest intel reports were right, the enemy was now using drones. Not those that flew at 30,000 feet, those that flew at thirty feet and were bought for as many dollars off of the internet. It didn't matter that they were unarmed, they had cameras that could report on troop movements, logistics, readiness. They were the eyes and the hordes with Kalashnikovs and IEDs were the teeth.

He ran a hand through thinning brown hair. Clutched his face for a minute. He didn't know what time it was; time was as shapeless as the dust and the dim orange light of his tent. Night, day, twilight, it was all hot and dry and dusty and dead.

"Sir!" Someone knocked on his door.

"Yeah?"

A heavily pregnant green-eyed woman entered. Stood at attention until he waved her at ease with a hand.

"Sir, it's the journalist. She's ready to see you."

"Thanks, LT." He managed a smile. Straightened out the twin eagles stitched onto his lapels.

"By the way, when do you rotate home? The kid's gotta be due in… what, August?"

"Yes sir," she smiled. "I should be in Alabama long before then."

A new family, back at home in the homeland. That was what he fought for. He smiled.

"Show her in. And then you're released. Thanks for everything, LT."

They shared smiles. The Lieutenant left and said a few words to those waiting outside. As they entered, the Colonel stood up as straight as eighteen hour days would allow and forced a grin.

"Colonel," the reporter said as she entered. "It's been too long. How's the war effort going?"

Straight to business, always working on the next big scoop. That was just like her.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he reeled her back. "First, let me say, excellent work on busting the smuggling ring. We suspected it for the longest time, but with your help, we should be able to get the funding and manpower we need to win this war."

"Win the war," she said, pulling a pen and notebook out of her knapsack. "Just what does that mean now, Colonel?"

He fixed her with a glare. His deputy, a bald man with water blue eyes, entered and murmured a few implicative words in her ear.

"Our troops are fearless," he said. "And they're fighting hard, every day. One of our squadrons lost its commander a week ago, but we've got them raiding suspected sympathizers right now. We're going to win this one, kid," he said, "with, or without the fake news."

"Fake news," she repeated. Shook her head and then drew an errant lock of hair out of her face. "If those are all your official comments, sir…?"

She waited for him to nod. Put the notebook away, took a seat, and accepted a cigar from him without putting it to her lips.

"Win the war," the Colonel said. He scoffed and nodded at his deputy to close the door.

"I just welcomed our freshest round of troops to the fight earlier today," he said. "One of the kids is seventeen years old—so I spoke to him alone, one on one. I wanted to know what motivated him to join, because I forgot a long time ago. And he told me about that day back in 2001.

"For a while, I felt good about myself. About what I was doing. Then I realized—this kid was seventeen. He was born after that day. He grew up to war and now he's going to fight in it, too."

He shook his head.

"Don't get me wrong. I believe in what we're doing—I believe in wiping the scum that trades in human flesh off the planet. But… how? And at what cost?" he said. Shook his head again. "What's worse is that they don't wear the uniform and they don't play by the rules. Did you hear about Belgium—did you hear about what happened to your country last night?"

The redhead shook her head gravely. Reached down to her knapsack for some reason, as if to comfort it. Or perhaps to comfort herself.

"A cartoonist. A God damn cartoonist. They dragged him out of his house and executed him in the street where everyone could see it. And then they shot up the neighborhood, and the cops, and then each other, so they couldn't be taken alive."

The Colonel comforted himself with a long drag from his cigar. He began to say something else when another rapping came at his door.

"Sir, military police," the Lieutenant's voice said. "Priority one."

At a word they entered, one after the other, both lean and trim and gaunt faced. Their kiffiyehs weren't unlike what the redhead had used earlier that day and their facial hair was all but identical. Just like their faces, their gait, the automatic pistols at their sides.

Normally, now was when they would smile and comment about the weather or how they would be on time but for ice on the road. Normally. Now, they simply stood at attention, one of them with a laptop under his arm.

"Gentlemen?" the Colonel said. "What's… wrong?"

"A new threat, sir," one of the twins said. He opened the laptop and set it out on the table. "We figured you'd want to know about it. This concerns you, too," he said over his shoulder to the reporter.

The reporter stood. Watched as the red logo of a video sharing site appeared, then vanished into a dusty dark room lit by a single dim orange light.

A masked man with a Kalashnikov walked into view. His black shirt bore a monochromatic logo that made his allegiance clear, that made him one among thousands. Many thousand.

"In the name of the Prophet," he began, "I declare a fatwa on the unbelieving scum, the lying press, the disobedient slaves, the Romans and their supporters." An incoherent rant followed, targeting gamblers, adulterers, alcoholics and homosexuals. Half-literate references to his holy book were made and for a time, the Colonel almost toned it out. He might have, if it wasn't for the chalky whiteness on the reporter's face.

"Something wrong?" he said. No response. He snapped his fingers in front of her face.

"Hey. Kid. You stared down the Serbians in Yugoslavia, don't tell me this little punk intimidates you?"

She swallowed. Shook her head. Paused and stared at the video, which had just switched to an amateur mode. Someone with a camera was walking around a humble little rainy village. The view focused on a little stone home with freshly painted windows—then the camera turned on another masked youth. He said no words. Just laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Back to the original masked man.

"Didn't I tell you," he said, "I'd hunt you down? Perhaps I should have added that those around you will not be let alone. By this time tomorrow, our legions will descend on them like rabid wolves on sheep. In the name of the Prophet, I swear it."

The video went black.

A long time later, one of the twins shut the laptop. Coughed and tried to look away from the redhead, where she stood shivering, biting her nails.

They knew… her home. Her family. Her parents…

"Have-have you told the gendarme?" she said.

"They reacted immediately and took your parents into protective custody," one of the twins said. "Your other relatives—cousins, aunts, uncles—they're being looked after. Extra patrols will go past each of their homes—"

"Extra patrols?" she repeated. "This is the Caliphate we're talking about. They're armed to the teeth with bombs."

"The gendarme are doing all they can," one of the twins said gently. "What with the cab drivers rioting and the youth protesting for jobs, it's more than we can ask."

"Perfect," she snapped. "Just perfect."

An awkward moment passed. She forced her shoulders to relax. Swallowed. Offered a smile to the twins.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I'm just… these guys are different and it's…" She swallowed her next words. It's the first time I ever shot someone. Killed someone.

"Anyway. Thanks for keeping me in the loop."

"Anytime," said one of the twins. "By the way, what's your next move? You wrote the story here. Where's the next one?"

So few words. So much was said. It's no longer safe here, not even for you. Get out while you can.

So she thought for a moment. Looked up with a grim smile on her face.

"The Caliph is active in the Philippines, they say," she said. "But no one knows me in that part of the world, and they have no connections with this Caliph anyway. I'll be safe there."

The Colonel laughed. "As safe as a lone woman in a warzone can be." He laughed again, this time joined in by his deputy, the twins, the reporter herself.

"Take care of yourself, kid. This story's important, but you have a lot more to cover," the Colonel said. "Come home in one piece. Alright?"

"Of course, sir," she said. She shook his extended arm—paused—then drew him in for a brief hug. Repeated the gesture with each of the twins.

"And by the one," the latter of the duo said, "follow the rules, alright?"

"Always," the reporter said. She began to smile, to ask which rules she ever broke, when a friendly yip from her ankles made her wince. Her knapsack was open and its contents were wagging its tail, searching for a treat from the twins.

Now that the dog was out of the bag, he could ride freely with her in first class, at least, as close to first class as the allied forces could offer. In this case it came in the form of a series of hard-backed seats crammed into a cargo plane laden with ammunition, helmets, MREs, first aid, bodybags. The tools for waging war and the tools for dealing with its results.

She buckled her belt over the dog and went through the motions of ensuring it was tight and taut. There were no flight attendants here, just a droning grating voice through the old speaker system, then a roar and great lurching jolt when the plane took to the air.

Hours passed. The little white dog fell asleep, a quiet ball of warmth in her life. Yet she stayed awake, eyes darting from here to there, fingernails chewed to the flesh.

The Caliph. The video. The masked man with the Belgian accent and his Kalashnikov and his followers.

No. That was all in the past, the story was written and emailed to the publisher already. And the slaves were no longer slaves, they were free… free to struggle, and starve, just as the millions of others like them struggled and starved in the war-torn homeland.

Something prompted her to check a lighted screen she pulled out of a pocket. Open up the map application, wait for it to synchronize, then zoom out.

She was over central Asia, it seemed. Afghanistan in particular.

The little white ball on her lap fidgeted. Began to growl. She put hr phone away to offer it a few words of comfort. None helped.

The plane lurched. Typical. There weren't enough mechanics these days; needed repairs were wanted repairs in times of austerity. Another lurch. Now the speaker was squaking, mayday, losing altitude, mayday, we're going down, a hundred miles outside of Kandahar, we're going down.

Another lurch. Typical. Darkness and noise. Typical. It was all going to plan. Nothing unusual. No reason to worry. No reason to scream and claw at the belt and drag the little white dog out of the flame and twisted metal and collapse into great vast emptiness.


End file.
